White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “It is not her,” he rasped, trapped in the agony and misery of ill dreams, “not her. I can tell.” Rising to his elbow, his eyes opened and fastened on her.

  “Not who?” she said, staring into raging fever.

  He watched her, eyes never once wavering.

  “Same face and yet not,” he muttered.

  “Boyden, you confuse me.”

  His eyelids fluttered closed, lashes dull against paleness. “Hurts.”

  “I know.” She reached for him. “Lie down.”

  He placed his head in her lap once again. “Scota, not you,” he mumbled, starting to toss this way and that. “Belonging to me.”

  “Boyden, if you do not stop moving, I am going to stake you to the ground.” She adjusted his head bandage, the green paste already discoloring the creamy color of the wool.

  In his delirium, he must have comprehended the warning in her tone for he quieted, slipping back into the deep slumber of illness.

  Scota waited a few more moments, listening to his breathing. He gleamed with sweat, his skin a sickly greenish pallor. When she felt satisfied he would rest quietly, she eased out from under him. Climbing to her feet, she walked over to the entranceway and stared with a heavy heart at the rainstorm outside. The blowing wind forced the rain to fall sideways onto the green land. She looked over her shoulder at the stone ceiling and noted the lack of water seepage inside the great cairn. The gaps in the roof stone appeared filled with sea sand and burned soil for waterproofing. She needed to find a container to capture the rainwater for drinking.

  The only possibility lay deep in the tomb, a place she did not want to go. With a heavy sigh, she moved back and cautiously stepped over Boyden.

  The low growl was her only warning. A large hand locked around her booted ankle and yanked, tumbling her to her back.

  Scota landed hard. He lay atop her, his body pressing her down, one forearm cutting off her airway.

  “Boyden,” she rasped. “It is I, Scota. You are too heavy.”

  Never-ending twilight pulsed in the deep depths of his fierce gaze.

  She took a painful breath. “You were cut with a Darkshade dagger and battle an enchanted illness.”

  He eased a wee bit off her neck.

  “That be not all I battle,” he snarled with warning.

  Gingerly, she touched his wrist. “Get off me, Boyden.”

  He eased some of his weight off her. Scota forced herself to hold his gaze, to reach for the honorable warrior within the dark enchantment. He had the most beautiful and unusual eyes she had ever seen, but at the moment they looked rather maddened.

  “Boyden.”

  He flinched.

  “I am here to help you. You must sense that.”

  He released her slowly.

  Scota sat up just as slowly, rubbing her bruised neck.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked. He watched her with an unblinking stare, threat coiling just below the surface like a sick and dangerous animal.

  “Boyden?”

  “I know you,” he answered flatly.

  She gave him a faint smile. “Remember? My name is Scota.”

  “Nay, I am not fooled.”

  She eyed him warily. “Who do you think I am?”

  “Her.”

  His body promised retaliation, if she dare move.

  “You must listen to me, Boyden. I am not this her. My name is Scota. You kidnapped me from my camp, nipped me on the jaw with some ritual bite and mated with me!” It took every ounce of willpower not to haul off and hit him. “Did you do that with her?”

  She glared at him, eyes filled with a woman’s fire, and he brought his hand to his head.

  “Scota,” Boyden said in abrupt recognition, eyelids closing in weightiness, the Darkshade madness releasing him. He took a deep breath.

  “Who be this her creature?”

  He chuckled low at her unexpected tone of covetousness. “You doona know her.” He had no intention of explaining the deadly wind’s claim on him and her body’s likeness to the haunting in his dreams. “What are you doing here?” he asked, licking dry lips. “I thought I dropped you down a well.”

  “You did. I climbed out.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I had help. Lie down,” she commanded sternly, and he complied, having little strength to argue. Easing a forearm over his eyes, he breathed deeply, the misery in his blood continuing, yet lessening to tolerable levels. If the white blood of a true guardian born had flowed in his veins, he felt certain death would have claimed him long ago. Only the grace of his mortal ancestry saved him. Derina’s herbal mixture was turning the tide, forcing the dark enchantment from his blood, changing pain to ache. He was no fool. He knew he needed help. It never occurred to him that it would come from Scota.

  He heard her rise and after a long while, return.

  “Boyden. Are you thirsty?”

  He opened the one eye not encumbered by woolen cloth. He felt scorched inside and stank of Derina’s confounded herbs.

  She knelt next to him, a slender warrior woman. Her white hands were cupped with clear rainwater. “You should drink this.”

  He pushed up on his elbow. Bending over her hands, he closed his eyes and drank from her as he had eaten berries from her, a kind of taming he recognized and accepted in need. Cool, life-sustaining water slid down his parched throat. His head throbbed mercilessly. His right shoulder itched with healing, and his stomach grumbled with emptiness.

  “Stay, I will get more.”

  He nodded, remaining as he was, head bowed with thudding hurt, watery eyes closed, shutting the world out. The booming thunder and crack of lightning racked the land with fury and water, but it seemed far away.

  “Here,” she said with gentleness. She knelt before him once more, holding out her cupped hands to his lips. “Drink, Boyden.”

  Without looking at her, he drank, soothed by her nearness and attentiveness.

  “More?”

  He nodded.

  She went away, returned, and again he drank from her offering. The fresh water glided down his throat in a resurging of life.

  “Enough?” she inquired.

  “Aye.” He eased down to his back, feeling weakened but no less encouraged. “By the winds, I stink.”

  “Yes, you do. Can you eat before you rest?”

  He shook his head, his stomach feeling unsteady, but it did not dissuade his pushy princess mate.

  A piece of cold mutton pushed through his lips and arrived in his mouth.

  He chewed, tasting no flavors, and swallowed. Another followed and then another.

  Cracking his eyes open, he grabbed her wrist to stay the next morsel. “My thanks, Scota. You eat this one.”

  Her sensuous mouth curved, and she nodded.

  He released her.

  A mistake, he quickly realized. Fingers pried his mouth open, leaving a piece of mutton behind.

  He chewed, glaring his displeasure, even though he felt a wee bit better. “No more, Scota.”

  She nodded, and he eyed her suspiciously.

  “No more, Boyden.” She held up empty hands. “Sleep.”

  His eyes slid closed, the call of sleep painful in its demand.

  “Rest and know you are safe with me,” she soothed.

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes, Boyden.”

  Barely could he hear her response. A soft hand caressed his cheek, and he slipped into the realm of dark oblivion.

  Scota watched over him a long while before getting to her feet and heading into the deepening shadows of the passage tomb. She needed to find something to catch the rainwater. Ancient burial places dotted the landscape, and although she had never entered such a grand tomb as this, she felt them all sacred and due respect.

  She hoped the worshipers had left something behind she could use. An odd yellow light flowed with and around her, a feeling of magical direction and of trespass.

  She paused and looked around. “Is that
you?” she asked, hearing the thunder outside and wondering if the wind would answer. The cool air did not move, and she turned back, inward bound, and entered a cruciform chamber at the end. It had a corbelled ceiling with upright gray stones. The musty scent of oldness permeated her lungs, a harking back to ancient times. The strange tiny lights continued to flow around her, lighting the intimidating shades. Near one of the three small recesses, she spied what she needed. Littering the floor around a basin stone, three chipped pottery bowls lay. There were also fragments of white quartz, water-rolled pebbles, bone pins, and four copper pendants with grooves in them. Scooping up the clay bowls, she ignored the other items and headed back out the chamber to the passage. Ornamental stone pillars, decorated with circles, spirals, arcs, star shapes, and chevrons, which were a form of zigzag lines she had never seen before, were everywhere she looked. The builders were expert craftsmen, intending this tomb to remain forever.

  Stepping over Boyden, she placed the bowls outside the entrance. She cleaned them with rainwater, then drank of one when filled. Replacing the bowl, she returned to Boyden’s side and inspected his temple. He did not move, but slept soundly. Sitting down next to him in the silence and the echoing call of the storm, she ate a small portion of the flavorful bread and mutton the druidess had prepared. Drinking another bowl of rainwater, she returned it to capture more rain and settled beside her sleeping enemy lover.

  Closing her eyes, she sought the comfort of a much-needed rest and snuggled close to his heat. In the full winds and torrential rains, the captain would also seek shelter, thus delaying his search.

  She felt they were safe for the moment. Resting her head on his uninjured shoulder, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  SCOTA AWOKE WITH A START. She sat up and listened to the difference in the darkness, a fresh and extending silence caressing her senses. It was near dawn. She peered at the growing light spilling onto the entranceway floor of the passage tomb. The winds outside had lulled with the thunderstorm’s passing, leaving behind a feeling of false tranquility that comforted. She took a deep breath and shoved the hair off her forehead.

  Beside her, Boyden slept soundly, a powerful arm flung over his eyes.

  Resting a hand on his firm stomach, she took a moment to study him, seeing only the lower half of his face. His nose fell straight, nostrils wide like most males. Full lips parted slightly in slumber, offering her a glimpse of white teeth. He had a strong, angled jaw. She peered closer and smiled at the tiny white scar under his chin. The shadow of a golden beard flowed halfway down his corded neck to the knob in his throat. That particular mark of maleness fascinated her, and she experienced a feminine urge to fit her mouth over it. Everything about him fascinated her. Her inspection dipped to the bronze torc resting on his collarbone. It looked old, the met-alworking of a slender rope with two circles at the end. She continued her downward assessment to a body of muscular quickness and curled her legs underneath her. For a moment, she felt suspended in time, his breathing the only sound in her ears. Heat flowed in her woman’s place, and her hand twitched on the crisp line of golden hair narrowing beneath his breeches. The gods and goddesses cast him to tempt and beguile the female.

  Though he smelled of illness and battle, reckless wants curled inside her. Even so encumbered by a less than appealing scent, she found him extremely desirable. She needed to bathe him and found pleasure at the thought of … Scota’s brows furrowed with puzzlement. What was wrong with her? Never did she bathe a male. Bathing another was a slave’s duty. Yet, thoughts of a female slave touching the masculine slopes of him filled her with jealousy. Her thumb caressed the firmness of his stomach. He belonged only to her, her servant, her slave. No, she mused, shaking her head. He was neither servant nor slave, but equal in all ways to her.

  Bending over him, she pressed a hand to his bristled cheek, the gold of a beginning beard rough against her skin. She found him cool, the fever gone. Easing from his side, she retrieved Derina’s healing pouch. Careful not to wake him, she pulled his arm down and removed the bandage from his head. Cleaning the older green paste from his wound with her fingertips, she found the flesh surprisingly pink and healthy. Whatever made up this healing paste, it worked fast. He would have a thin scar from temple to brow, noting a victory hard won. Gladdened by his curing, she generously reapplied a portion of the remaining green paste. Using the dagger to cut another section from the hem of her woolen shirt, she wrapped his head. Next, she inspected his injured shoulder. Pushing some of the paste aside, she found the skin a pleasant shade of pink, too. With so little left of the druidess’s curative mixture, she decided not to reap-ply any to the shoulder, saving what remained for the Darkshade wound.

  With the needs of her own body pressing, she decided to venture out into the dappled dawn and walked toward the entranceway.

  “Where are you going?”

  Scota looked over her shoulder.

  He regarded her from beneath lowered lids.

  “How do you feel?” she asked instead of answering.

  “Improved,” he replied and asked again, “Where are you going?” There was a tone of ownership in his voice, a possessive quality that was both annoying and pleasing to her ears.

  “Outside.” She gestured with a wave of her hand. “I spied a small stream amongst the trees earlier and wish to bathe.”

  His eyes fluttered closed. “It is an underground spring, Scota. I suggest you watch out for the undines.”

  “Undines?”

  “Water faeries.”

  “What water faeries?”

  Those sensuous lips twitched with a male’s secretive mirth. “They like to watch.”

  “Watch what?” She blurted out, suspecting the answer.

  He licked his bottom lip and smiled.

  “You need to bathe, too, Boyden.”

  “I know, later, when my head stops pounding.”

  “As you wish.” Turning on her heel, Scota walked out into the brilliant land, butterflies appearing to drop out of the low-drifting clouds. The air was cool with the promise of warmth. To her right, sheets of gorse, golden flowers, lay across a wild meadow many horse lengths wide.

  Mist rose from puddles and coated single areas of the moss-green land. She headed down the slope to the spring. After taking care of her needs, she removed her clothes and piled them near the purple haze of a hedgerow of rhododendrons.

  Water sprang with exuberance from a grouping of triple boulders, ribbons rippling down into an ancient water hole unbroken in the shadow of time. The oblong pool curved sharply at one end. Testing the chilly waters with her right toe, she shivered and rubbed her arms. Resigned to a bathing, however, she made her way over slippery black pebbles and knelt where the water crested over the tops of her thighs. It was not deep. Wisps of mist moved insidiously all around her, casting unknown spells in the wavering line of bluebell and pink fuchsia flowers.

  Breathing in whispers, she washed away the grime from her body and hair. She adapted to the cooler temperatures of the moving waters while keeping a careful lookout for any water faeries.

  Convinced she was alone and no longer chilled, she rinsed out her clothes, stepped ashore, and donned them soaking wet.

  Whoosh!

  A terrible pain cut into her back bringing her to her knees. She grabbed frantically at her side.

  Gasping for breath, Scota looked down at the crimson stain growing on the outer side of her left breast. The leaf-shaped flint tip of an arrowhead stuck out of her rib cage. The arrow had pierced her back, the wooden shaft lodging through her lung in painful permanence. In her mind, she knew arrow wounds to the lungs were fatal, causing massive blood loss, infection, and extreme restriction of breathing. No one survived this type of injury, and she had witnessed many to know. She had but a day before her air passages, swollen with yellow liquid and pus, closed. The bow and arrow picked off the enemy without creating an alarm. A silent killer, it had always been her preferred weapon of cho
ice.

  Pale and trembling, she attempted to inhale but a sharp pain cut off her airway.

  Time seemed to slow and ebb.

  A twig cracked beneath a heavy boot.

  She could hear the beat of her straining heart.

  The rushing sounds of the water …

  … and a life near ending.

  “Well, well, a pretty showing, Princess,” Captain Rigoberto said, coming around to stand in front of her.

  Lifting her head, Scota met her attacker’s gaze.

  “Lovely morn.” The captain grinned, showing his yellowing teeth.

  The wind began to pick up, shivering leaves and rolling twigs. She blinked slowly, trying to clear the haze in her vision.

  Six hard-faced men, dressed in brown tunics and breeches, accompanied her killer. They remained apart and away from her, and she wondered which one of the four cowards carrying the bows took aim at her back.

  “You have been a thorn in my side, Princess Scota, since I had the ill fortune to meet you.”

  Scota struggled to keep her wits about her. The captain wanted something of her or he would have impaled her heart immediately instead of her lung.

  In sickly intent, his eyes roamed over her quivering breasts, clearly outlined by her damp shirt.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Scota. It is a shame it has come to this. However, since you refused to share my bed, what use are you?”

  She wet her lips before answering. “I am Amergin’s emissary, not a whore.”

  “Are you?” he taunted. “Methinks the great bard did not know what to do with you and so dumped you on me.”

  “Not true,” she said with denial.

  “The Tuatha warrior’s kidnapping of you provided an ideal solution for me.” He smiled. “I will be grievously forced to tell the great Amergin that his emissary died in battle. Do you think he will remember your name? Do you think he shall grieve for the likes of you, a worthless woman?”

  “I am not worthless.”

  “True,” he agreed. “You are crafted for lying on your back while a man ruts between your legs. Your lovers have been exceedingly few, but speak hotly of your lust.”

  “Liar.” Scota’s hands pressed into the pain of her bleeding side.